


take the dark, carve me out a home.

by thepapernautilus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Comfort, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Post-Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal, Reunion Sex, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25917334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapernautilus/pseuds/thepapernautilus
Summary: “If I were to tell you that this isn’t the end—that we will meet again—would you believe me?”An interpretation of "some days later."Now with a sequel over in"refulgence."
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Reader, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 39
Kudos: 388





	take the dark, carve me out a home.

_“If I were to tell you that this isn’t the end—that we will meet again—would you believe me?”_

His words, spoken with a dying man’s borrowed breath in a throne room where ancient emperors once lived and died like nebulas eroding spacetime, lingered in your skull for the days to follow, taking up the precious limited commodity of your focus and love. As you stand before the Crystal Tower’s throne, a derelict Allagan relic to the sun’s infinite power, he could have spoken such broken words to you moments ago. When the Exarch succumbed to the Tower, a fight he was destined to lose from before the beginning, you stood before him for several long moments, memorizing his frozen features, taking stock of his broad shoulders, strong enough to carry the burdens of an entire people, and his hand wrapped around his staff, gentle enough to care for lost children. If he was wrong, this would ever be the last time you saw him. And you wanted to remember the Exarch for the paragon he was, not a timeswept boy living on borrowed time.

The Crystal Tower of the Source slumbers with their Allagan princeling. While the halls still growled sickening promises to rip and rend by unseen abominations, and each machination you passed grew more twisted and demonic as the next, there was a lethargy which permeated the very crystal surrounding the throne. The waters, which had fairly roared with the profusion of power Elidibus promised them, are silent, serving nothing more than a reflection pool for the young man slumbering in his throne.

When Xandes had sat the throne on your first arrival to the Crystal Tower, even with the shade of Allag’s power within him, he was nothing short of a fearsome foe. But G’raha Tia, short for even the stocky Miqo’te, is a child in the throne’s cradle. For all you knew, he was merely taking a break from his treasure hunting and picked a suitable place to rest, curled with his cheek pressed against the frozen crystal, a threadbare blanket draped over his shoulders. His scarlet hair, which to your great relief is untouched by the ravages of time, lay unbound in his face, shadowing his features and hiding the pride of his Archon marks from the world. If anyone had succeeded in breaking into the Tower, they would be sorely confused by the boy who called the Crystal Throne their resting place.

You collect G’raha’s hands (surprisingly _warm_ to the touch) in his lap and wrap them around the soul crystal, your hands covering his, as if enough contact could facilitate the cosmic effort required to cleave two souls together. Where the Scions had at most five winters to contend with, the Crystal Exarch had lived a hundred long, agonizing years on the First. So as the crystal glimmers with aetheric power, you take the time to brush his hair out of his eyes, knowing it’d irritate him when (when, when, _when_ ) he awoke, and straighten his misshapen collar, drawing the blanket off his shoulders and folding it neatly for the next Allagan royalty in need of a catnap. You wonder where he got the blanket; was it left over from Saint Coinach’s expedition, or did he recover it from some ancient room before taking his rest? As you lean forward, you brush something with your boot and kneel to fetch it; G’raha Tia had fallen asleep reading, it seemed. You close the book and set it to the side, in case he’d like to finish it.

The crystal finally darkens, falling stagnant and cold in his hands. And then, his lashes flutter, and your heart is in your throat.

Was this the trepidation the Exarch had felt, upon each failed summoning? The crushing fear of all that could be lost, the prize so close within one’s grasp if only one believed enough, prayed enough, _deserved_ it enough. And no one, you thought, was more deserving of a second life than the Exarch.

He blinks blearily, stifling a yawn as he looks over his body with some confusion, stretching out his legs to see the same armor he had worn (merely two winters for you) so long ago, before flexing his hands around the crystal in his hands, and following those hands up with his eyes to your arms, and then to your face, undoubtedly stricken with tears.

“Good morning,” you whisper, choked and fearful.

You know the rejoining was a resounding success when he wordlessly tugs you into his arms.

He whispers your name with relish, hugging you with all the fierceness you had seen long reserved in the Exarch which is set free for G’raha, burying his face into your hair and shoulders, shuddering with long-pent sorrow and above all, relief and sweetest _joy._ His arms around you are a crushing, grounding comfort, the furious thrum of his heart in his chest a tempo promising safety, promising the rest afforded after a long, _long_ journey.

“H-How do you _feel?_ ” You croak, cradling his face in your shaking hands to meet his watery scarlet eyes. “D-do you remember everything? How…?”

“It does not seem,” he says shakily, “that there were any contradictions or disagreements between my souls. Although I daresay if I felt I did not remember something, I would scarcely know, would I?” He chuckles, pressing his warm hand to your tear-streaked cheek. “I will say, despite all this sleep, I feel _tired._ Probably the result of being an old—“

You swat him gently. “If Rammbroes told me correctly, you’re younger than _me_ now, so watch it.”

He laughs, a brilliant sound you last heard on the day he tried to sacrifice himself on the Kholusian cliffsides. “Is that right?”

He leads you out of the Tower, taking you down winding halls more intricate than mazes as if he could do it blindfolded and backwards. But G’raha Tia is rendered speechless as you leave the Tower’s gates. He stares down at the Four Sentinels, blinking furiously away still more tears that threaten to overflow. You take his hand in yours, knowing it would either break or solidify the dam threatening to burst within him. It proves to steady him; he grips you back with a grateful smile, taking a shaking breath.

“I have imagined this moment for a century,” he whispers, “especially so in the darkest parts of my life. It is not a sight I ever thought would come to pass, so forgive my sentimentality.”

You smile weakly at him, struggling against emotional overwhelm yourself. Azem’s crystal burns with ancient sunlight from a forgotten civilization in your pocket. “Perhaps such things are warranted, after so much.” You hesitate. “If we go back to the Rising Stones, the Scions, and all of Saint Coinach’s Find, are going to have you talk until you lose your voice.”

He nods, ears perking forward with interest.

“Such matters…” you blush at your own words, “could likely be delayed a sun, I should think.” And you glance up to meet his eyes, hoping that some of the innuendo slips through without your having to speak it aloud.

“What did you have in mind?” His voice takes on a rusty quality that feels like liquid courage.

“I have a house—small, mind you—in Shirogane’s residential district.”

“Doma?” He blinks his surprise.

You nod. “A teleport spell should do the trick. We can return… whenever you like. But perhaps a day, with only one other person, would serve to acclimatize you to do the Source again.”

“I must admit, I am curious to see where the Warrior of Light takes her ease,” he grins. “By all means.”

It takes more aether than you anticipated, to teleport the both of you without his attunement. But the weariness in your bones is a small price to pay. As you land on the doorstep of your modest Shirogane home, you feel like you’re the one who has made off with some precious artifact, and the authorities would be at your gates to take him back, how _dare_ you take this happiness to be yours, surely there was more suffering to be done before you could claim such a coveted reward.

But no one is coming to take G’raha Tia from his Warrior, not now, not ever. He lets go of your hand to walk slowly through your gardens, lingering on the Azeyma roses and watching the fireflies startle and give chase in the midnight air, drifting higher and higher until they are indistinguishable from the stars scattered above. He kneels down to brush over the bed of lavender, lily of the valley, windlight, and digs his fingers into the soft dark loam before standing.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs. “Such flowers did not grow in the First. I had… forgotten.”

“I only wish I had more for you to see,” you say weakly.

He smiles. “It is is a lovely garden, and suits you perfectly.”

You had wondered, during your scant afternoons you were able to take your leisure, usually while waiting for the blacksmiths to repair your weapons and armor after your last grisly battle, what the Exarch would do if he could step into your home. Would he linger over the haphazard pile of boots at the entrance, or would he notice the smoldering fireplace first? Or would the kitchen, modest but clean, catch his attentions first, or maybe the basket of La Noscean oranges you kept stocked. But the answer invariably came down to one, and you smile to see your hypothesis proven true. G’raha Tia walks in a daze to your bookshelves, drifting over the dusty spines as if he were fresh off the airship from Sharlayan.

As enchanting as watching his fascination with your modest tome collection is, you decide to busy yourself instead with preparing two cups of strong Ishgardian tea, even taking the time to prepare a saucer of cream and setting out the sugar cube tray. When the boilmaster finishes with a shrieking whistle, you hear the sound of a book being dropped and cover your mouth to stifle the giggle at the image of G’raha Tia being distracted to obliviousness by your book collection. He’s sliding the book back into its spot on the shelf when you return with tea and sesame cookies.

“You are a gracious host,” he says as you hand him a chipped mug of tea. He adds one sugar cube before taking a cautious sip. “You have quite the collection. I must admit, I’m surprised you find any time at all to read between your adventures.”

You smile ruefully. “You have the right of it. Half were gifts, I purchased a quarter on my own, and the rest are from my guildmasters, with strict orders to memorize backwards and front. I’ve maybe completed three of those tomes.”

He laughs. “Garuf Baldeison would have your head, young lady. But reading for leisure is a privilege indeed. Perhaps we’ll both find more time for such things.” He frowns, looking down into his half-drained teacup. “I wonder if the Baldeisons still have my books… it hasn’t been _that_ long, has it?”

“I suspect Krile saved your possessions,” you smile. His ears perk forward at the mention of her.

“Oh, Krile. You’ll have to mop me off the floor when she’s done scolding me for rushing off without her.” He takes a bite of sesame cookie, then blinks hard, putting a hand to his forehead and wincing with pain, and you nearly drop your own cup in your rush to put your arms around him, pure fear striking your heart.

“It’s merely a headache, from aether sickness, either from the memory transference or unattuned teleportation,” he tells you, putting a placating hand on your arm. “I imagine the Scions are experiencing similar feebleness. Please, don’t worry. I cannot remember the last time I felt so hale.”

You let out the shuddering breath you were holding. “Forgive me. It’s easy to jump to conclusions when any headache could be some mysterious person summoning you to a different Shard or gods knows what. Perhaps… this conversation would be best continued in bed?” Without the guise of his robes and cowl, G’raha can’t disguise the way his ginger ears flick upwards with alertness, his tail lashing at his side.

“I-If you feel that is best,” he stammers, setting his finished teacup on the tray before following you obediently up the stairs to your loft.

Your sleeping arrangements are more nest than proper bed; the home had came with the standard Doman futons and duvets, but with how little time you spent at home, you had merely thrown on innumerable pillows and cushions and blankets onto the futons and hoped for the best. The result was a messy, if not deeply comfortable, pile of bedclothes.

“I must admit,” he says, kneeling to remove his complicated hunting boots, “I’m not surprised, judging from the frequent state of your bed in the Pendants.”

You grin. “So you _were_ spying on me. Ardbert suspected as much. Liked what you saw?”

“I never used the mirror for such purposes!” He sputtered, holding his hands up in defense. “S-Sometimes, when you left for the First, I would… stop by, before the innkeeper could clean up. Just to see.” He trailed off, cheeks flushing. You imagine the Crystal Exarch standing in your messy room in he Pendants and the image is incredibly endearing, warming your heart to the very edges. How much, beyond his identity and past, had stayed concealed? The hidden secrets you hadn’t even thought of telling each other, far too intimate and casual to come up in conversation with the fate of two worlds hanging in the balance… You undo the stays of your gown, stepping out of it delicately in just your underclothes before wrapping a blanket about yourself and finding a comfortable home beneath the pillows. G’raha is quick to follow, albeit stiff and hesitant, watching you carefully for permission as he presses his back against his wall.

“Much happened these past few days, that we have not spoken of.”

He leans forward with concern, and you explain in a tumble of words the star studded crystals, your fight with Elidibus, and the golden one burning in your pocket, bringing it forward for him to inspect. He traces the ancient circle with careful consideration.

“Azem,” he breathes, and some _thing_ twinges irrevocably in the very deepest reaches of your soul at hearing him invoke the title. “How does it feel, to have your suspicions confirmed?”

“Strange,” you admit. “Nothing, and yet everything has changed.” He hands the crystal back to you, your fingers brushing, and you set it aside carefully. “But we have time enough to ponder such things, before the next confrontation.” You take his hand in yours, slowly undoing the buckles of his bracer. “So, G’raha Tia—what do you intend to do with your newfound life?”

He watches your movements, sighing as your fingers run across his bare warm skin. “That feels unspeakably wonderful,” he hums, and you flush with pleasure at his words. “When I wake from this rather lovely dream, a cold shower will like be in order, and I suppose I’ll have a salmon fillet and Kholusian rice for breakfast before my morning meeting with the Crystarium council. And after that—”

You roll your eyes at him, pinching his forearm and finding very little flesh that isn’t muscle there.

“I jest, but there is some truth to that—it will take me some time, I think, to truly believe I am where I am, I am _who_ I am. So forgive me if I am only living in the present in the coming days.”

You nod your assent. “I can scarce imagine the magnitude of what you’re coming to terms with.” His bracer falls into your hand, and you set it aside before moving to the next. He automatically lets you, watching you with scarce concealed fondness.

“It is much easier than I thought—likely my souls coalescing well,” he smiles. “One thing is for certain—I have spent far longer a mage than an archer at this point, so I will need a change of clothes if I am to serve you in any capacity.”

“I have _no doubt_ Tataru is contemplating as much as we speak,” you chuckle, “with relish. Look forward to an hour’s worth of measurements, and only that if you’re lucky.”

“There is one other thing I am sure of,” he continues as the second bracer slips off—his right arm, the one that once held his golden staff with monumental authority, the one you hadn’t seen hale and spoken in so long. You run your fingers over the warm skin as he speaks, watching him shudder under your touch. “I do not intend to leave your side, warrior, unless you do not wish me there.”

You tilt your head up to consider his softened expression. “Rest assured, I keep my promises, Raha.” You frown—the endearment had come instinctually to you, but you hadn’t asked him for such, and Y’shtola had made _certain_ you understood the gravity of speaking a Miqo’te’s abbreviated name. “I-Is such a thing okay for me to—?”

“It is more than okay,” he whispers tenderly, drawing you close to his chest. The bracer falls to the floor, and your head finds a home against the thunderous roar of his heart within his breast, arms wrapping around him easily, feeling the comforting presence and strength of him. “You, of all people, are entitled to call me such.”

As you snuggle close to G’raha, savoring the warmth of his skin, the strong arms around you, you cannot help but think of how _different_ this man is from the Exarch. You had oft tried to sneak a moment along with the Exarch, but he had seemed determined to avoid you, save in the safety of his Ocular, and even then, you hadn’t missed how he’d pull away when you drew close, or his quick excuses when you invited him to functions with the rest of the Scions. He seemed determined to ostracize himself, to either protect you, or him, or both. “I had wanted,” you whisper, “to do this with you—with the Exarch—but he seemed determined to avoid such matters in face of his duty.”

He cards his fingers through your hair thoughtfully. “The Crystal Exarch,” he says, a bitter smile in his voice, “was a shy old man who did not think he could offer his beloved inspiration much in terms of companionship, with his mind and body claimed by the Tower and the Crystarium. In the contest for the Warrior of Light’s affections… he didn’t feel he stood a chance.”

“That wasn’t for him to decide,” you huff, “among other things.”

“An accurate assessment,” he agrees. “But nevertheless, he did not feel it was appropriate to entertain such selfish desires in the face of a calamity. However…”

His hand curves beneath your jaw to tilt your head up to his.

“I am not the Exarch,” he breathes, “and I am far more selfish and greedy for your attention than he ever was.”

If ever you required reassurance that the man before you was irrevocably changed, it was here—G’raha Tia of the Sons of Baldeison may have had the pluckiness to pull such a stunt, or to pull you into a hasty kiss hoping for reciprocation, but none of the skill or follow through. _This_ Raha’s scarlet eyes, a smoldering ancient fire brimming with secrets, bear into yours, challenging you, promising everything, offering himself for you. He has waited a hundred years for even the _chance_ to be with you.

How could you do aught but tug his lips down to yours?

You expected the fires of Ifrit himself to rage in your ears or Garuda’s winds to rip through your room with the force of such a long-awaited painstaking kiss. It seemed surely, after defying the fates beyond the edge of time itself, that a Calamity would come forth to sunder you apart once again. But all you hear is the soft chime of crickets in the dozing garden beyond the cracked window, the fragrance of lavender and nightblossom drifting through on the humid summer air, his lips soft, warm, and pleading against yours, arms crushing you to him as if it would be enough to keep you safe from the apocalypse surely, _surely_ awaiting you.

His breathing is a ragged rhythm to chart your course as you try to return his ardor, your numb and trembling fingers struggling against his tunic to find stays, latches, buttons, _anything_ to give you more of that wonderfully smooth skin and prove he was spoken and whole once more. You pull away for a second to try to solve the puzzle of his clothes and squeak in surprise as he chases your mouth down again with a stubborn “no—” tongue slipping between your parted lips to take you without quarter, growling his approval when you loop you arms about his shoulders, deciding instead to handle the far easier puzzle of undoing his hastily done braid.

“Forgive me my impetuousness,” Raha gasps against you when he finally does pull away, only to tilt your head upward with a possessive grip, exposing your vulnerable neck to lick a scorched stripe across your thrumming pulse point. “I think you’ll understand when I say I am losing my patience.”

“Then be rid of it,” you demand with a sigh, and in answer his arms slide down your body, tracing countless untold scars over your clothes, to wind tight around your waist and hoist you into his lap.

“I fear the very gods will awake and collect their dues at any moment,” he chuckles throatily into your shoulder, pushing aside the strap of your bralette to send your world spinning yet again with teeth and tongue and a thousand scalding kisses.

You struggle to find your voice amidst the throes of pleasure threatening to pull you under. “I daresay they’d have more than a match with us.” You look down to meet his eyes then, and there is a fire, kindled a hundred painful years ago, still burning from your confrontation against Elidibus in the throne room, the same determination that ignited when he smirked at you over playing his strongest hand.

“I concede,” he murmurs before capturing your lips once more, his kisses slow, languid, impossibly rich and sensual. You tangle your hands in his hair, silken and ripe for winding between your clenched fists, cupping a flickering ear before stroking it with your thumb. He shudders, gasping into your parted lips, fingers digging into the plump swell of your bottom to draw you tighter onto his lap. His enthusiasm is nearly suffocating, and it’s only after he slips a shaking hand beneath your camise slide up your waist do you realize something fundamental—

He is _touch-starved._

And you may as well have been the first meal he’d seen in a century.

“I-If I’m—” he stammers between kisses, before pulling away, only to forget himself again to take the indulgence of nipping at your collarbones, “If… you are uncomfortable, or I am going too fast, by all means—”

You tilt his head up to yours again with ferocity, straddling his lap to grind down on the hardness tenting in his pants. He hisses as if stung, lashes fluttering closed and biting his kiss-stung bottom lip.

“Take what you want— take _everything_ ,” you tell him, sealing it with a gentle, featherlight kiss.

His eyes darken to deepest crimson at your words.

In a trice, he has your top pushed up to your chin, drawing slow, tentative hands up your ribcage, encircling them, before brushing the outer swell of your breasts with trepidation. You sit patiently for a moment, before slipping a hand beneath you to give a firm caress to his inner thigh, and he curses darkly before covering your breasts with warm, roughened hands, leaving breathless kisses on the sharp plane of your sternum before drifting to your breasts. You bring him as close as you can, raking your nails in his hair and listening to his muffled groans and delighting in how he shudders helplessly at such as simple thing. How far, you wonder, could you drive him past the edge? And what would happen once he arrived at such a precipice?

You slide your knee between his legs and _press_.

It feels, a little, like being consumed.

His kisses, once loving and soft, turn harsh and desperate, his teeth plucking at your sensitive nipple and driving a cry from your lips, one hand firmly on your bottom, massaging loving bruises into the soft flesh and the other pinioning you to him, fingers splayed between your shoulder blades. As his hips thrust up into your knee for relief he grinds out your name as into the rapid crescendo of your heart, a plea, a prayer, an answering and a reckoning all in the same ragged breath.

You pull him down into the cushions and G’raha follows with no hesitation, as he always has.

His slender hips slot perfectly between your thighs and he looks wild and absolutely ravaged as you finally find the damned clasps to his tunic, nearly ripping them in your rush to wrench them off. The expanse of bare, muscled, flushed skin spends you spiraling, and you run gentle greedy hands from his sternum to his hips, his eyes never leaving you, breathing growing more ragged with every second.

“D-Does it always,” he growls deep in his throat when your lips find his neck, “f-f-feel so…?”

“So…?”

“You.. this…feels… _ah…_ it’s—” _he’s trying to intellectualize,_ you realize, so you drag your teeth down his firm pectoral and bite down. He bucks up into you, the gentle hand at your back growing iron-clad as he crushes you to him.

“— _so fucking good._ ”

The words shoot immediately to the wet heat pooling between your legs and you determine to do everything in your ability to keep him talking.

As you drag his pants down his hips, you realize you may be a little out of your comfort zone. Truth be told, you had never taken a man like this—your previous experiences with love were always trifling, fumbling experiences that left you hungry and confused, and you had never tried to kiss anyone _down there_. But judging from the way Raha’s hands fell to your head, shaking hands clenching in your hair and whispering your name with reverence, you could do little wrong.

The first thing you think when you see his erection is _Twelve, that must be painful._ He was at full mast, scorching to the touch—a muffled oath rips from his lips when you hesitantly pump him—he seems torn between needing to watch your every movement and looking anywhere but you. When you drag the flat of your tongue up the underside of his shaft he groans your name and curses “—Wicked _white_ that feels—“ and drifts into a broken cry when you take his swollen head into your mouth and suck. You taste bitter salt on your tongue and clean, silken skin, but the real reward is his reaction; his hips lift off the cushions, instinctually seeking more of you, more of that mouth and he tells you as much in a rambling, desperate plea.

“Please, don’t stop, you feel _so good,_ my Warrior, I’m… _oh_ , I’m…”

Your jaw aches as you take him fully into your mouth and you struggle against your gag reflex when he bucks into you, swearing desperate apologies as he drops his hips back down. But you’re nothing if not determined, and you try to take him to the root again, sucking and licking, trying to not drag your teeth across him. You come up and then sink back down and its enough—his hoarse broken shout echoes in your ears as you swallow his essence, coming off him with an obscene smack and wiping your mouth with the back your hand to witness your destruction.

His pupils are blown wide, eyes darkened into moonlit scarlet as he caresses your cheek with tenderness.

“For one so quiet,” Raha gasps, “I cannot say I expected you to be _that_ skilled with your mouth.”

You flush at the compliment as he draws you up into his arms again.

“Would you believe me,” you say between his lovesick kisses, shocked and unbearably aroused at the way he chases his taste on your tongue, “if I said I’d never done that before?”

He pulls away to search your face for falsehood. “Your first—? T-This is your first time—?”

“No,” you say quickly. “But… for… performing _that_ on someone, yes.”

“This may as well be my first, for all the experience I have,” he murmurs as he kisses you again, a hot, open-mouthed affair that’s all tongue and scorching heat. “So, has anyone… responded in kind? For you?”

You shake your head and the grin that spreads on his features is just short of bloodthirsty.

“The Warrior of Light,” he says, the invocation of your title feeling profane as he presses you into the cushions before sliding his hands down your waist, settling on the flare of your hips before hooking his fingers into your pantalettes and smalls, “savior of Eorzea, hero of the realm, slayer of untold horrors… and no one has ever made you come with their mouth.”

“No one has made me come, _ever_ ,” you stammer. “asides from myself.”

He stares at you, incredulous, before yanking down your bottoms. “If I had known such,” he tells you, dragging his hands down to sweep across your shuddering thighs, “I would have rectified the matter the _instant_ I summoned you to the First, Warrior. No greater sin or crime has been committed in the history of this star. And while I am as untutored as you in such matters, I will endeavor to give you a fraction of what you gave me so selflessly a moment ago.”

And when his mouth comes to your center, already so wet and oversensitive from merely the anticipation alone, you have little doubt he will be successful.

Perhaps his blood has cooled by his own peak, but Raha’s infinite patience has returned as he plies you with silken lips and slippery tongue. You squeak with indignity as he spreads your thighs wide his firm hands, faltering off into a cry when he presses biting kisses into the vulnerable flesh, before descending upon you with a pleased purr. It feels like complete overwhelm, defeat and victory in the selfsame stroke. The sight of his ginger head between your legs is enough to split you asunder, and then he glances up at you from beneath dark lashes with those ancient sanguine eyes, all pride and joy and _love._ The climax, a tight coil wound by all the stress and anxieties of the past few weeks—nay, the past few _years_ —threatens to come undone and leave you desolated in its wake. Half fearful of the power behind it, you tense your legs to try to stave it off, a little longer, and then he begins to speak _into you_ and the fight is forfeit.

“Let yourself give in,” he begs, “let go, you of all on this star deserve it. Let me make you feel good, let me give you _this_ , my love.”

And he dips two fingers in (so _easily_ ) and you break apart with his name like a prayer, stardust scattering behind your eyes as you arch like one possessed off the cushions, curving around him, pressing that wonderful mouth to you with a trembling hand as he brings you down from your height.

You collapse on the cushions, sated beyond words, the only sound in all the world your slowing breath and the crickets singing sonorous and slow in the garden.

“’Twas a good idea, to stay here instead of the Stones,” you manage as Raha leaves a parting kiss on you and comes up to cuddle into into his arms. You are boneless and pliable as clay as he fits you beneath his chin.

“Your wisdom is infinite,” he agrees with a contented sigh, running cool hands down your trembling back. “although the thought of you trying to keep quiet while I…” and he grins at your small noise of protest. “Another day, perhaps.”

“Did you want…?” You ask cautiously, gesturing downwards. “I would hate to leave you any less sated.”

“That depends on what _you_ want, my dear.”

As wonderful as the idea of reducing him to delirious moaning once more sounds, you shake your head and bury into his chest again. “We have time—all the time in the world. I am in no rush.”

“Then neither am I; to be fair, I do not think my heart could take it at this point.” He laughs throatily. “I cannot help but wonder if this… would have felt different, for better or worse, as the Exarch, but it is too late for such comparisons to be made.”

“You are the one who locked yourself out of such an opportunity,” you remind him with a giggle. He strokes your hair thoughtfully.

“It will be _strange_ indeed… growing old, not being able to get away with skipping meals, getting _sick_ again…”

“You’re as spoken as the rest of us,” you smile with satisfaction.

“I’ll have to work twice as hard, to keep up with you,” he says, and he surprises as you swat him.

“None of that.” You snuggle back down into him with a contented sigh. “You serve me perfectly well as my pillow, for the time being. Naught else is necessary.”

He traces dizzying, arcane symbols into the small of your back, humming a song deep in his chest so _familiar_ to you yet so foreign, and you fall into blissful sleep trying to puzzle out the melody for yourself.

**Author's Note:**

> they really gave me everything i could have asked for in 5.3 and i'll die screaming about it. i owe ishikawa my life.  
> title is from ”give” by sleep token, highly recommend. wonderful song.  
> [my carrd.](https://thepapernautilus.carrd.co/)  
> 


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